


a sweet dark air

by mlraven



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Not Related, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 05:31:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14586000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mlraven/pseuds/mlraven
Summary: Tea is the cup of life.An explicit billboard, a rainstorm, and some tea bring T'Challa and Erik together.





	a sweet dark air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eddisaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eddisaster/gifts).



> Happy Wakanda In My Pants!!
> 
> I've never written a coffee shop AU before, so I hope this is okay. :)
> 
> Thank you to anon for the beta and catching my sleepy passive voice!

T’Challa passes the billboard twice a day: once on his drive into the city and once on his drive home. He’s not sure why an underwear company feels the need to advertise on both sides of the interstate, though he has a sneaking suspicion it has to do with the model. Or, more specifically, the model’s body.

The billboard is a shoulders-to-knees shot of a well-muscled black man, skin gleaming where it’s not covered by a tight t-shirt and clingy boxer briefs. He’s teasingly lifting the hem of the t-shirt such that a large swath of his chiseled abdominal muscles are on display, along with the logo-bedecked waistband of the briefs. The briefs skim the dips of his hips and every curve of his quads; the billboard’s centerpiece is the sizeable bulge, almost obscenely outlined.

Every time T’Challa passes it, he shakes his head. He looks at the image and sees only the alterations that it’s clearly undergone. How can anyone look at those billboards and feel anything but frustration at the burnished perfection the company is selling?

He looks every time, though.

  
  
  


In the evenings, T’Challa takes a walk to his local cafe for a cup of tea. He usually takes his tea to the small park that serves as their outdoor seating area, to breathe in the fresh air and to read his book of the week.

Today it’s pouring, so T’Challa drives to the coffee shop and dashes inside as quickly as he can, shaking out his umbrella and setting it in the stand by the door. He looks around and is surprised to find the cafe almost empty; no one’s behind the counter, and there’s only one frantic student simultaneously bashing their keyboard, flipping through books, and chugging coffee.

He’s just walked up to the bar to wait for the barista when the door to the cafe flies open and someone darts in, trailing a small stream as he runs towards the counter.

“Sorry, sorry,” the man pants, darting behind the bar to wring out his clothes in the sink. “My car broke down; I ran here,” he explains, giving up on his sweatshirt and stripping it off. “I’m the new barista,” he says, muffled by the soaking fabric.

His shirt gets stuck in the hoodie, riding up to reveal the most perfectly sculpted stomach T’Challa’s ever seen. He starts to say something, but pauses— why does this man look familiar?

Finally, the man’s head emerges and he tosses the sodden sweatshirt aside. He uses one hand to smooth his shirt back down over those perfect abs and starts logging in to the register with the other.

“I’m Erik,” he says, smiling wryly. “I’m usually not this much of a mess, you got me on a bad day. What can I get for you?”

T’Challa blinks, then shakes his head to dispel the lingering curiosity. “One cup of the rooibos tea, please. I’m T’Challa,” he adds belatedly.

Erik smirks, hands unwaveringly dipping beneath the counter to retrieve the loose-leaf tea. “T’Challa, huh. You must be the regular Nakia told me about. One cup of tea, every evening. You goin’ outside in this?” he asks, raising a brow as he packs the tea into a strainer.

T’Challa chuckles. “No, it would seem not. I might try something new and sit inside, today.”

Erik places the strainer in a mug and pours boiling water over it. He sets the mug in a saucer and passes it to T’Challa.

“That’ll be two dollars and forty-five cents,” he says, just as T’Challa hands him two dollar-bills and two quarters.

“Thank you, Erik. Keep the change,” T’Challa says, taking advantage of Erik’s distraction to slip a five-dollar bill into the tip jar. He picks up his tea and carries it to the bistro table across from the bar.

Erik eyes the tip jar as he drops the nickel into it; he’s pretty damn sure that five wasn’t in there before. He looks up in time to catch T’Challa’s eyes, who simply smiles.

There’s something about that guy, but Erik doesn’t know what it is. If he’s a regular, he’ll figure it out eventually.

  
  
  


T’Challa is transfixed by the barista. He’s turned on a playlist of R&B at low volume and is humming along to it as he tidies up the counter.

T’Challa has to remind himself repeatedly to look back down at his book— ostensibly the purpose of this trip— instead of watching Erik and trying to figure out why he looks so familiar. He accidentally over-steeps his tea, a mistake he hasn’t made in all the years he’s frequented this cafe.

He spends so long staring into space that he startles when Erik comes over to clear his dishes. T’Challa doesn’t even remember drinking the tea, but apparently the mug’s empty because Erik takes it without asking. T’Challa glances over at the clock on the wall and is surprised to see it’s past closing time. When he looks around, the rest of the cafe is empty; chairs turned upside down over their tables, floor freshly-mopped.

He bolts to his feet, scrambling to shove his book back into his briefcase. Erik looks up from the counter, where he seems to be… folding towels? That’s not a typical part of the routine, T’Challa thinks, though he’s never been here past closing to know for sure.

“I’m so sorry, Erik,” he says, brushing invisible crumbs from the table. “I didn’t realize how late it had gotten.”

Erik chuckles, setting the folded towels in a basket. “‘sokay, you looked pretty caught up in that book. ‘sides, it’s still coming down out there, so I’m considering waiting for it to let up.”

“Oh, your car,” T’Challa remembers. “Let me drive you home; it’s the least I can do for all this,” he says, waving a hand vaguely.

Erik cocks his head, narrowing his eyes as he assesses T’Challa. After a moment, he shrugs. “If Nakia vouched for you, you can’t be too bad. Gimme a minute to do the last table, then we can jet.”

T’Challa walks to the door, giving Erik space to wipe the table and himself time to consider just what he’s doing. He’s never been impulsive, always investigating every possible outcome before deciding on any course of action. There’s something about Erik, though, that makes T’Challa want to throw all caution to the wind and ask if he wants to just come home with him.

Erik meets him at the door, wet hoodie in a plastic bag. He flips off the lights and nods to T’Challa’s umbrella, alone in the stand. “You ready?” he asks.

T’Challa cracks the door open to unfurl the umbrella, stepping outside to shelter Erik as he pulls out his keys to lock up. They make their way to T’Challa’s car, matching strides easily. They break apart to slide into the car, and T’Challa tosses the sopping umbrella in the back seat.

The car ride is quiet, the patter of raindrops interspersed with Erik’s directions. When they pull up outside of Erik’s building, the raindrops look suspiciously like tiny hailstones, and T’Challa insists on walking him to the door. Erik retaliates and insists that he come up for another cup of tea before going back out in the rain.

 

 

One things leads to another, and T’Challa ends up staying the night.

Turns out those billboards might not be Photoshopped, after all.


End file.
